


do not go gentle into that good night

by cedarwoods



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, F/F, Fix-It, shootweek20
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-01
Updated: 2020-06-01
Packaged: 2021-03-02 17:55:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,494
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24480895
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cedarwoods/pseuds/cedarwoods
Summary: Shaw saves Root in 5x10.
Relationships: Root/Sameen Shaw
Comments: 20
Kudos: 132





	do not go gentle into that good night

**Author's Note:**

> A big thank-you to fulmentus for taking the time to beta this for me.

A bullet whizzed past Shaw’s shoulder. She ducked for cover behind one of the black SUVs parked haphazardly against the curb. Its previous occupants were strewn on the street, lethally shot by their own men. Bullets and shell casings continued to fly, shattering the windshield. Glass rained onto the street.

It had been the right call to send Root away, she mused, though their conversation kept ricocheting in the recesses of her mind.

_I’m not leaving you again._

Formidable though she was, Shaw was starting to run out of ammo; she’d left her spare guns in the BMW that she’d ordered Root to commandeer. Without backup, there was no way she could fend off these goons for long.

Shaw poked her head up and peered through a bullet hole in the windshield. If her aim was true, she could take out the moron waving around the machine gun.

_Bang!_

Shaw watched the man fall out of the tank and faceplant onto a bag of garbage on the ground, blood pouring out of his head. She’d earned herself a temporary reprieve, but it would only be a matter of time before someone replaced him. Samaritan’s operatives multiplied like the heads of Hydra.

A car horn honked behind her. “Get in hotshot! Cavalry’s here!” Reese called.

“’Bout goddamn time,” Shaw muttered as she clambered in beside him. “Punch it, Lionel!”

He didn’t need to be told twice: they sped away as soon as she slammed the door.

“Where’d Glasses and Cocoa Puffs go?” Fusco asked.

“Working on that,” Shaw said, typing furiously on her phone.

“You put a bug on your girlfriend?” Reese asked.

“Just the lapel of her jacket.” Shaw didn’t bother dignifying the last part of his question with a response. Reese quirked an eyebrow. “Look Reese, I’ve lost people before, so when I care about someone, I plant a tracking device on them.”

“Can’t argue with that,” he said with a lopsided smile. “What’ve you got?”

“Astoria,” Shaw said, frowning at the red dot blinking on her screen. “We’ve gotta grab them and get the hell off these streets. We need a – a safe place.” She winced.

Reese glanced at her, concern etched on his face, but merely nodded.

“Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ, what happened here?” Fusco gaped, veering around the flaming wreckage of another black SUV.

“ _Root_ happened, I’ll bet,” Reese said.

Shaw whistled. “God I hope She got footage of this.” Something didn’t feel right though. She pursed her lips as an unsettling thought began to crystallize. “How long have we been on the road for?”

“About 20 minutes,” Reese said. “Why?”

“20 minutes, and this is the only whiff we’ve gotten of Samaritan’s lackeys?”

Silence rang as her implication became clear.

“Fuck me sideways, they’re driving right into an ambush,” Shaw hissed.

Reese’s eyes burned with a cold, implacable fury. “Samaritan’s probably got snipers hiding out there.”

Finch had chosen a terrible day to shackle the Machine _again_. It was no wonder Root had darted out of the apartment to confront him. She was now facing a god badly outnumbered – and blindfolded to boot.

“Hey, you two gonna tell me where to go, or what?” Fusco interjected. “Places to be, people to save!” 

“Make a left here. Go straight for a few miles, then make a right,” Shaw barked, eyes glued to her tracker. “We’ll figure it out from there.”

“If they carry on this trajectory, we’d be cutting them off,” Reese said.

“Which is the point. We’ve got to intercept them before Samaritan can.”

“Got an exit strategy in mind?”

Shaw selected her words carefully. “We’ll go down.”

Or they would go down trying.

*

For a long while, they drove in eerie silence. Reese and Shaw scanned their surroundings for threats. Shaw’s neck hairs prickled, and her entire body was taut, like the string of a slingshot, ready to strike. Fusco gripped the steering wheel uneasily. It was unusual for any streets in the borough of Queens to be so empty, and Shaw couldn’t shake the suspicion that a threat was prowling just around the corner.

“Right turn at this intersection,” Shaw said at last. Fusco obliged.

“Is that them?” Reese asked. A silver car was approaching them. Shaw could make out 5KS on the license plate, the holes that riddled the windshield, the vaguely familiar faces behind it.

“That’s them.”

She caught a sudden flash of movement at her 2 o’clock: a blond man on a terrace, peering through a scope, taking aim at Root and Finch –

“NO!” Shaw bellowed. She leaned out the window and fired off several rounds of her submachine gun in quick succession. Two hit their mark: one pierced the sniper’s temple, the other, his shoulder. His face went slack, and he collapsed on the terrace.

The BMW, meanwhile, had swerved sharply and lurched to a halt.

Shaw raced to the car, Reese and Fusco hot on her heels. She wrenched the driver’s door open. “Root!”

“I knew you’d come back for me.” Root tried to smile, but her face flashed in agony. Her breath stuttered, and she clutched her chest.

 _I’m not leaving you again_.

Blood pounded in Shaw’s ears. She tore off her hoodie and pressed it hard against Root’s chest.

“I’m sorry,” Root whispered.

“Stay with me.” A lump bobbed in Shaw’s throat. She swallowed hard.

Finch was staring on in abject horror. Reese had whipped out his cell phone and was muttering under his breath as he paced. Sirens caterwauled. Red and blue lights danced on Root’s gaunt face.

Reese put a hand on Shaw’s shoulder.

“She doesn’t have much time.” Even to Shaw, her voice sounded hollow. Dimly, she was aware of police officers converging on them. Fusco strode to meet them, brandishing his badge.

Paramedics rushed to Root and placed her on a gurney.

“Go. We’ll take it from here,” Reese said.

Shaw barely heard him. She was already climbing aboard the ambulance.

*

The trip to the hospital was a blur. Shaw recalled threatening to castrate Leon Tao – who apparently attracted ambulances and trouble in equal measure – if he did not get them to the ER in time. Then she had slipped into autopilot mode as she helped the paramedics keep Root breathing.

A surgeon – Dr. Madeleine Enright, her badge proclaimed – was waiting in the operating room when Shaw burst in, already clad in stolen scrubs.

There was a sharp intake of breath as Dr. Enright glimpsed the wound. “How did –”

“Don’t have time for questions.” Shaw snapped on surgical gloves, a mask and goggles. “We’re going to fix her.” Her mind reeled, launching her into a memory.

_“There’s a difference between fixing and healing.”_

“The odds of surviving a surgery like this are –”

Dr. Enright clammed up, quailing slightly under the ferocity of Shaw’s glare. “Fuck the odds,” Shaw said through gritted teeth. They set to work.

In none of the simulations had Root faced the glare of the surgical lights. It had always been Shaw.

Trying not to dwell on how frail Root looked, Shaw knitted her eyebrows and focused on the task at hand: Extract the bullet. Ensure adequate blood supply. Stitch up the wound. Monitor breathing. She recited the instructions in her head like a mantra.

_“Let me ask you this: Do you care whether your patients live or die?”_

_“Of course.”_

_“But does it hurt you?”_

_Shaw stared at the Dean._

_“I’ve been watching you for some time,” the Dean continued, “and it doesn’t seem to bother you.”_

_“This place is filled with doctors who don’t care if their patients live or die.”_

_“No, this place is filled with doctors who_ pretend _they don’t care. But you’re different. Aren’t you.”_

Her “difference” had granted her a rock-steady hand, and her precision now could mean the difference between life and death for Root. Tension cloaked the operating table like a shroud as Shaw painstakingly retrieved the slugger lodged in Root’s chest. A 6.5mm bullet gleamed, gold and bloody, between Shaw’s forceps. It had missed Root’s heart by an inch.

Dr. Enright began to suture the wound. Each stitch seemed to coincide with the rhythmic beeps of the heart monitor. When Enright finished, Shaw finally released a pent-up breath. Root wasn’t fully out of the woods yet, but she would live.

“Thank you,” Shaw said quietly.

“Just repaying the favour.” Dr. Enright flashed her a demi-smile. “Your friends, John and Harold, saved my wife’s life.” Her face grew solemn again. “I can tell you’ve been fighting for this woman for a long time. I hope that you can be together in peace someday.”

The thought of a “someday” had haunted Shaw for months. She was trapped in an unending, nightmarish present. The future – if it still existed – was nebulous at best.

She could only nod in response.

Reese arrived later in the evening. With Dr. Enright’s help, they smuggled equipment and blood packs out of the hospital. It was drizzling now. Blue pulses lit the sky and ground. The wail of sirens and the whir of helicopters continued to rent the air. 

“I need you to blindfold me,” Shaw said. 

If Reese was surprised, his face did not betray it. He produced a handkerchief from the inner lining of his suit and tied it around Shaw’s eyes once she was seated in the car. “For what it’s worth, Shaw,” he said softly, “I trust you with my life.”

Samaritan’s version of him hadn’t. She’d shot him for it.

“Good,” she managed to say instead, “considering how many times your life needs saving.”

*

Reese had only had time to help her set up the IV drip before a distressed call from Fusco had him running back into the night. When he was gone, Shaw finally allowed herself to take off her blindfold. Her eyes were assaulted by a sea of purple. Blinking in confusion, she took in the lava lamp on the nightstand. The shag rug and bunny slippers beneath her feet. The Ugly Bat pillow nestled on Root’s bed. Samaritan could never have predicted Root’s childlike quirks. She touched the spot behind her ear and found it unblemished.

The jewel-toned lamp limned Root’s pallid face. Shaw was reminded of a paper lantern jostled by a storm.

She didn’t know how long she’d maintained her vigil when a knock on the door jolted her from it.

“Shaw? It’s John.”

“Come in.”

She turned her head away as Reese opened the door a crack. Bear barreled towards her, his tail wagging a mile a minute. 

“It’s great to see you too, buddy,” Shaw grinned. “You gonna help me guard her?”

Bear turned to Root, cocked his head and let out a mournful whine. He leapt onto the bed and curled up by her feet.

“I brought coffee,” Reese announced.

“Thanks.” Shaw accepted the proffered cup and took a sip.

“How’s she doing?”

Shaw glanced down at Root and sighed. “She hasn’t regained consciousness yet. Did you find Finch?”

It was Reese’s turn to sigh. “Well, he _was_ in federal custody. Then he escaped with about 300 convicts before we could reach him.”

Shaw stared blankly at him. “What the actual fuck.” She shook her head. “Back up. Start from when I left with Root.”

Reese took off his wrinkled suit jacket and sank into a beanbag chair. “So, the cops obviously had questions about Root’s giant stash of assault guns, the totaled cars, the dead bodies everywhere, and so on. Root was easy enough to explain away, on account of her FBI alter-ego, Augusta King,” Reese said. “We said she’d been investigating gang violence, confiscated those weapons, and was escorting a civilian to safety. But Harold…” Reese rubbed the stubble on his jaw. “Seems that with his cover blown, all this shit from his past keeps cropping up. Feds arrested him for hacking ARPANET in the 1970s.”

Shaw sat quite still as she processed this. Finch had made it his business to know everything about the team’s past. But not once had he divulged his own secrets.

“What I still don’t understand,” she began, “is how he and 300 other people busted out. And from under Samaritan’s nose, too.”

“Working theory is that he’s on a warpath with the Machine helping him.”

“Meaning…the Machine’s talking to him.” She frowned. Somehow, She had broken out of Her chains. Was this what Root had meant when she said she’d hardcoded a defense into the Machine?

“I’ve never known Harold to be so angry.”

“Bereavement does that to people,” Shaw noted. “He probably thinks Root’s dead.”

Silence gaped between them as they remembered the destruction they’d each left in their vengeful wake years ago when they’d lost Cole and Carter respectively.

“His number’s still up.” Reese massaged his temples. “I can’t believe I’m about to say this, but I think Harold’s the perp. He’s ready to kill Greer with his bare hands.”

“Then I suppose we’d better stop him so _I_ can kill Greer with my bare hands.”

Reese studied her impassive face for a moment. “You do have more of a right than all of us combined,” he acquiesced.

He rose, slinging his jacket over his shoulder. “I’m going to hit the hay. I’ll check in with Fusco and see if we can get Dani and Zoe to help us find Harold in the morning. We’ll need all hands on deck for this.” Catching the expression on Shaw’s face, he amended, “Root needs you more than Harold does. I’ll see you guys later.”

His footsteps echoed through their empty headquarters as he left.

*

Shaw was woken by the whisper of sheets.

“S’meen?” Root rasped.

“Hey,” Shaw breathed. “Hey, you’re awake.”

Root reached for Shaw’s hand and threaded their fingers together. Shaw kissed Root’s knuckles. “I killed the fucker who shot you,” she murmured against them.

“Ha, thanks sweetie.” Root’s smile was tinged with regret. “His name was Jeff Blackwell. John and I could’ve killed him before but…we let him go.”

“Like I said, second chances are overrated.”

“True,” Root murmured. “Though this feels like a second chance for us, doesn’t it?” Her thumb traced patterns along Shaw’s hand. “I’m grateful for it.”

“Me too,” Shaw admitted.

They sat in quiet companionship for a spell.

“Is Harold okay?”

Shaw could tell that Root had been bursting to ask about him. “He’s alive, but we have no clue where he is.”

Root touched her bad ear. It struck Shaw just how much the gesture mirrored her own. “She’s not talking to me right now,” Root lamented.

“Maybe She just wants you to rest.”

“Or maybe you’re projecting,” Root teased. “Is that your order, doctor?”

“Yes. Shut up.”

“Will you stay with me?” Root asked softly.

Shaw held her gaze. “I’m not leaving you again. And if I do–” 

“You’ll come back for me.”

“Always.” 

Losing and finding each other: this was their dance.

They fell asleep with their hands clasped tightly, like children afraid of relinquishing a balloon.

**Author's Note:**

> Hello to anyone reading this. There's a lot I'd like to say, so please bear with me. 
> 
> First, this day is always very challenging for my and a lot of other fans' mental health, given it's the anniversary of 5x10. I truly hope that this fic brings you some comfort. 
> 
> It's because of 5x10 that I run Shoot Week every year. (I actually wrote this fic for that). I meant to host #shootweek20 from June 15-21, but in light of current events, I felt it was not appropriate to have it then. I am pushing it to July 19-25 (dates are tentative). Event details are [here](https://twitter.com/AriyahV/status/1252013840818155521); I will update the posters when I can. 
> 
> In the meantime, here is what I'm offering: If you show me proof of donating to any organization from [this list](https://blacklivesmatters.carrd.co/) with a timestamp, I will write you a Shoot fic. You can send me a prompt or give me free rein (no angst though). I can be reached via DM on Twitter (@AriyahV) or email: ariyah.vansh@gmail.com 
> 
> Thank you for taking the time to read this. Take care, and stay safe.


End file.
